


please, please

by ShowMeAHero



Series: second chances [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Late Night Conversations, M/M, acts of service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “Bard,” one of his capturers snaps. Jaskier lifts his eyes. He’d been gagged the second they’d grabbed him, or else he’d snap right back.Unsure of whether or not being a smartass will benefit him yet, Jaskier doesn’t do anything except keep staring up, even though his heart is racing with fear and adrenaline. He thinks Geralt would be pleased with him for staying so calm — outwardly, at least.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: second chances [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020742
Comments: 21
Kudos: 322





	please, please

**Author's Note:**

> ohhhhh shit looks who's dabbling

They’ve been travelling together for a few years and sleeping together for two when Jaskier gets captured.

It’s not like he’s never been captured before; he has, and even before he met Geralt. People like him tend to draw a lot of eyes, and not  _ every  _ one can be looking at him kindly. Besides, ever since he teamed up with Geralt, the instances have shortened up, at least; Geralt doesn’t waste time getting him back on his feet and on the road when that happens.

This time, it’s been about half a day since he was captured washing by the stream that morning. The sun high in the sky above the clearing where he’s been tied up beats down on him, so it must be just past noon; Geralt can’t be too far, since he’d only gone upriver to take care of the Drowners the village nearby had paid him to kill. It won’t be too long before he gets back to the camp, realizes that Jaskier and Roach are gone but Jaskier’s clothes and lute are not, and sets out to find him.

Jaskier looks to Roach where she’s tied up along the tree line. She’s not looking at him, head down and eyes staring into the woods. He wishes he could see what she sees.

“Bard,” one of his capturers snaps. Jaskier lifts his eyes. He’d been gagged the second they’d grabbed him, or else he’d snap right back.

There’s three of them, Jaskier can see now, squinting against the harsh white light of the sun, shining right in his eyes. When he shifts to put one of the capturers’ heads into the line of the sun, he can actually make out more than just their shapes. Two of them are as big as Geralt, but they’re flanking the one who’s spoken. All three of them are men, and all look much stronger than him.

Unsure of whether or not being a smartass will benefit him yet, Jaskier doesn’t do anything except keep staring up, even though his heart is racing with fear and adrenaline. He thinks Geralt would be pleased with him for staying so calm — outwardly, at least.

“Where’s the Witcher?” the capturer asks, the one in the front. He’s smaller than his comrades, sharper, wearing heavier furs and a richer sword at his waist. His fair, freckled face and orange hair force him to stand out from the black cloaks and white faces of the men behind him.

Jaskier furrows his brow. Even if he  _ wanted  _ to answer, he’s still gagged. None of this seems very professional or well-thought-out, in his opinion, but these men  _ had  _ gotten the jump on him. In fairness, they’d blindsided him by sneaking up and bashing him on the temple with a rock until he passed out, but still. Frustrating that they’re a step behind him in his own kidnapping.

One of the men behind the redhead reaches past him and yanks the cloth from Jaskier’s mouth. He rolls his tongue between his teeth, spits into the dusty dirt at his knees. The same man shoves his shoulder hard, hard enough that Jaskier falls back from his knees onto his ass. He just barely manages to avoid ending up flat on his back. His hands are clasped tight in front of him, right at his waist, wrists knotted together with rope; his ankles are the same underneath him.

He’s still fuzzy and disoriented as he struggles to sit back up again, but he manages it. Blinking up into the sun, he says, “That certainly won’t help me remember where he’s gone off to.”

“So it  _ is  _ you,” the redhead says. “Dandelion. The bard traveling companion of the White Wolf.”

“Oh, so you’ve heard my songs,” Jaskier comments. “That’s lovely. Anything you particularly like?”

“No,” the man asks. He takes a step closer and crouches down in front of Jaskier, bringing them almost to eye level. It’s almost shocking how clean he is. Jaskier and Geralt had washed themselves in the river just before Geralt had left late the night before, and even then, it was nearly impossible to wash all of the road off their skin.

“How do you get your skin so clean?” Jaskier asks. The man frowns at him.

“Jurek,” the man says backwards. He straightens up and adds, “Tomek?”

The two men behind him look towards Jaskier. The hair at the back of Jaskier’s neck stands on end, a heavy pit of dread sinking in his stomach.

“When the Witcher comes back, you’re going to turn him over,” the man says.

“Why would—”

“If you want to survive,” the man says, “then you’ll turn over Geralt.”

“I’m not doing that,” Jaskier tells him, before the man’s even finished.

“Then you’ll kill him,” the man says, frustrated, throwing his arms up. “And you’ll just tell him Narcyz is responsible. Is that good enough?”

“Wh—  _ No,”  _ Jaskier answers. “I’m not going to do that, I don’t even know who you—”

“You  _ will know,”  _ Narcyz tells him. “The Witcher will remember me regardless. He bedded my sister, and—”

“Wait, wait,” Jaskier interrupts. Against his better judgment, he asks,  _ “Geralt?  _ You’re telling me that  _ Geralt—  _ That he  _ bedded your sister?” _

“She told me the White Witch from—”

“The White  _ Witch?”  _ Jaskier asks. “I thought you were looking for the White  _ Wolf.” _

“I  _ am,”  _ Narcyz insists sharply. “Do  _ not  _ interrupt me.” He looks backwards and says again, angrily, “Jurek.”

The man behind him to the left pushes past him to shove Jaskier on his back in the dirt again. All of the breath rushes out of Jaskier’s lungs in a breath, his heart racing faster, ice water plunging through his veins. He tries to think, all in a rush, but Jurek grabs his hair in a tight fist, and he can’t help but cry out at the sharp jerk of pain.

Geralt has spent the majority of their free time teaching Jaskier how to defend himself as necessary, so he tries to rely on instinct. He  _ tries  _ not to panic, to just pretend this is Geralt sparring with him, that he’s not in any real danger.

Heart pounding, Jaskier brings his knees up hard. Jurek wheezes and falls to the side, so Jaskier rolls up onto his belly and starts crawling as fast as he can for Roach. He actually makes it much farther than he thought he would, fingers just grasping for her drooping reins when someone else grabs his ankles and yanks him down.

Jaskier tosses himself onto his back again and kicks as hard as he can into Jurek’s face, but Tomek is right behind him, now. He hurtles his brother to land over Jaskier’s chest, one knee digging into his belly. Jaskier jerks roughly, trying to elbow him in the nose, but he misses, Tomek is too fast.

“No, no, no—” Jaskier starts to exclaim, shoving backwards when Tomek gets two fistfuls of his tunic and drags Jaskier closer under him. The tunic’s actually Geralt’s, five times too big; Jaskier had been swimming in it before, but he wore it down to the stream anyways. He likes wearing Geralt’s clothes, and Geralt likes seeing him in his clothes; he likes to grab him by the waist and—

Tomek plants his hand on the side of Jaskier’s face and shoves the other side into the dirt. A rock digs into his cheek, breaks the skin, but he bites his lip and just slams his eyes shut. Above him, Roach is starting to audibly panic, snorting and kicking up loose dust.

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Narcyz says above him to Roach. Jaskier thinks of Geralt again, about how angry Geralt would be at Narcyz for treating Roach that way. He likes to think Geralt would be angry for how he’s being treated, too.

Jaskier tries to take a second to separate himself from the terror and the pain lancing through his skull and just  _ thinks.  _ He tries to think of what Geralt would do in this scenario, if it were him captured, told he had to hurt Jaskier.  _ What would Geralt do? _

After a long, horrible second where Jaskier tries to convince himself there’s literally any other option, he finally gives in. He stops struggling, goes limp in the dirt, and just waits. It’s another minute, at least, before Tomek lets up, lifting his hands just a bit to check on Jaskier underneath them. Too much air rushes down Jaskier’s throat at once, and tears prick his eyes, but he just stares up at Tomek silently, waiting.

“He’s just laying there,” Tomek reports backwards.

“Is he dead?” Narcyz asks.

“No,” Tomek says. “He’s just— I don’t know, he’s just looking at me.”

Tomek vanishes from Jaskier’s blurry vision. All he sees is green and blue, a muddled mess underneath red blood dripping into his eyes, before Narcyz swims into view.

“Are you going to do as I’ve asked?” Narcyz asks, impatient, condescending. Jaskier nods, bites his tongue. Doesn’t let himself say anything else, even though he  _ wants to,  _ fuck, he wants to tear Narcyz to shreds  _ so badly,  _ but survival instinct tells him not to try anything with someone so clearly on the edge.

“Are you sure you can trust him?” Jurek asks from— somewhere. Jaskier can’t get his head to move from the dirt.

“He doesn’t exactly look like he’s in a place to disagree,” Narcyz points out. He tilts his head to the side and pouts at Jaskier. “Are you, Dandelion?”

Jaskier wants to spit in his face. Instead, he shakes his head, ignoring the instincts screaming at him to bite this man’s nose off if he gets any closer.

“Wonderful.” Narcyz reaches backwards towards Jurek and returns with something dark in hand. Jaskier gets dragged up into a sitting position again by Tomek, propped up by his rough hand on the back of his neck. He stares down at the object in Narcyz’s hands as he tosses it into Jaskier’s lap, heavy and sharp.

Jaskier shifts his bound hands to slip the sheathed dagger between his palms. The hilt and handle are silver and gleaming with yellow jewels.

“Geralt will know it was me,” Narcyz says, so firm as to be cocky. “He’ll recognize the blade.”

“Who are you again?” Jaskier asks, unable to stop himself. Narcyz strikes him across the face with a closed fist before either of them can blink, two of his rings tearing open his cheek.

Jaskier inhales sharply, jerking backwards, bringing his bound hands up to his face. The dagger clatters to the dirt, and Narcyz grabs it, sheath and all, shoving it into Jaskier’s face hard enough to bruise.

Slowly, Narcyz grits out, “I am the man who will kill you if you don’t do as I’ve asked.” He levels a hot look at Jaskier, green eyes so filled with fury that Jaskier can’t look away. Still staring, unblinking, at one another, Narcyz asks, “Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathes. Narcyz unsheathes the dagger. He doesn’t break eye contact with Jaskier as he cuts the ropes tying up his hands.

As soon as the bindings around his wrists and ankles are gone, Narcyz backs off, leaving Jaskier to stagger to his feet alone. He coughs and spits into the dusty dirt, blood kicking up a cloud. It’s not hard to look away.

“Take the horse,” Narcyz tells him. “If he asks, tell him you fell.”

"He won’t believe that,” Jaskier says automatically, because he  _ won’t.  _ Geralt has no functional understanding of minor human injuries. He gets stab wounds and hacked-off limbs, but Jaskier had once sprained his wrist and Geralt had had him ride on Roach for a week. It’s a humorous aspect of his personality, for Jaskier.

“He’s not going to care,” Narcyz disagrees.

Jaskier’s chest twists. He glares down at the ground again, trying to stop himself from spitting at this man. Fuck, he just wants to  _ so badly.  _ So,  _ so— _

“Look at me,” Narcyz says sharply. Jaskier doesn’t move quickly enough, still too hesitant to obey, even if obedience in search of freedom was  _ his  _ plan. Narcyz grabs him by the chin, nails piercing the gashes in his cheeks, and yanks him up.

“Fuck you,” Jaskier snarls. He can’t help himself.

“Go kill him,” Narcyz orders him. He’s about to back off, but then he comes in real close, close enough that Jaskier can smell the sweet plainness rolling off his skin and his mouth. “And don’t tell him what is happening. If you do, I will hear you, and I will kill you both.”

He shoves Jaskier backwards hard, but, this time, Jaskier doesn’t fall. He stumbles, yes, but he doesn’t fall; he catches himself against Roach and rights himself, and it gives him  _ just  _ enough dignity to keep going. Even though his heart’s racing and his blood’s boiling and it’s taking everything in him not to try to drag this man into the dirt with nothing more than his nails and teeth, he turns and he goes. It would only end up with him and Roach dead, and Geralt ambushed. That doesn’t do anyone any good.

The dagger goes into the tight waist on his pants. They’re torn at the knees and by the waist, but they don’t fall, so he just leaves them. Besides the clothes on his back and Roach, there’s nothing else for him to bring.

Jaskier leads Roach further and further into the woods, hands shaking, mind racing. He just hopes Geralt doesn’t find him first before he figures out a plan.

* * *

Geralt knows something’s wrong even before he’s left the river. He’s not so far from where they camped that he can’t generally hear and smell Jaskier and Roach both. He has begun to speculate that he might be able to recognize them across entire towns, maybe further, but he hasn’t said anything to Jaskier. It’d sound romantic to him, and he doesn’t need another song telling people how valuable Jaskier and Roach are. The songs Jaskier sings make him nervous enough as is.

This is all beside the point that he hears Jaskier’s heartbeat stutter like a lift in the wind. He’s glad the Drowners are already dealt with, because it means he can beeline to the shore and haul himself up onto the dry grasses alongside.

The further he gets from the rush of water, the clearer he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, racing faster and faster before settling back into a steady calm. It’s unnerving and sounds nearly like his heartbeat when he sleeps. The whole thing makes Geralt’s skin prickle. Before he knows it, he’s running through the woods back to their campsite, ducking under branches and vaulting over fallen, rotted logs. He blisters through the forest and breaks through to find nobody.

Their campsite remains, but Jaskier and Roach are both gone. Geralt whirls, eyes scanning the campsite and the treeline quickly, searching for something, anyone, but there’s nobody and nothing. He sees Jaskier’s lute, sees his bundle of fine clothes, sees the pack of potions he carries for Geralt—

None of these are things Jaskier would leave behind if he’d taken off for some reason. Geralt forces himself to stop, think. He lifts his head and scents the air.

Jaskier’s scent loops around back to the river, but Roach’s doesn’t. Hers goes in a circle in the other direction, tracing backwards, closer inwards, into the heart of the forest. It’s a hard debate which scent to follow: in theory, Jaskier had gone to the river like he’d said he was going to this morning to bathe, despite the fact that Geralt had told him not to. He hadn’t known how far down the Drowners would be, even though the villagers had assured him they were only upstream. Jaskier had argued that he rarely got use of a warm freshwater spring for a free bath, and he wouldn’t pass up this one.

The memory of their playful argument makes Geralt step towards Jaskier’s scent, but he hesitates. If he follows Roach’s scent instead, he’ll likely end up led directly to whoever took her, rather than having to follow Jaskier’s circuitous path.

It makes Geralt’s chest ache, but he ignores it. He’s a tracker, and he knows which way to go to find the fastest route.

He follows after Roach. Her hooves and the mass of her body crashing through the brush have left more of a path than Jaskier would have anyways, presumably, and Geralt takes heart in that. He just holds onto the hope that Roach and Jaskier  _ are  _ in the same place.

Dread starts to seep through him as he keeps tracking after Roach. More likely, he’s starting to realize, something happened to Jaskier at the campsite and he released Roach to protect her; maybe Roach just ran loose, searching for Geralt, and Jaskier’s been in danger for even longer than Geralt knew. Perhaps, Geralt thinks wildly, Jaskier was killed and Roach was—

Close enough to hear, too distant to properly understand, there’s a sharp cry. Geralt freezes, listening. After a few moments, he hears Roach snorting, hears and smells the fear she’s suddenly spiked with. It’s more than enough to send him hurtling through the woods again. He has to tuck and roll through a tight broken crack in a rockface, but he keeps running, faster than he thinks he’s run in months, maybe years, but he  _ pushes. _

The next cry he hears is closer to a shout, or a scream, and it’s distinctly Jaskier’s voice. The last time he’d heard  _ that— _

That had been the night before, Jaskier laughing breathlessly under Geralt as Geralt had ridden him, crying out sharp and high when Geralt had ducked his head to kiss him hard, teeth digging into Jaskier’s bottom lip.

Then, he had dragged Geralt closer, demanding more, still grinning.

Now, he sounds terrified and hurt, and  _ too far away,  _ and Geralt can’t get to him fast enough.

He forces himself faster still, sweat streaking the river water he’s already soaked in, and nearly slams right into Jaskier in the woods. He feels wild as he grabs Jaskier by the shoulders and pushes him backwards, in between himself and Roach.

“Where?” Geralt snarls, drawing silver. He can smell blood and tears and sweat and bitter fear, but Jaskier’s not speaking or moving or— or doing  _ anything,  _ just staring up at Geralt with horror, like he can’t believe he’s there.

“No,” Jaskier says, finally. Geralt doesn’t step away from him, still scanning the forest for Jaskier’s attacker.

“What happened?” Geralt demands. Jaskier doesn’t speak, falls silent again. Geralt turns to look at him, but Jaskier’s face is ashen, drained of color, and he’s staring into the trees.  _ “Jaskier.” _

Jaskier’s eyes snap to his, but he doesn’t move otherwise. The look on his face is petrified and thoughtful and confused and in pain, all at once, and Geralt can’t begin to parse what he’s thinking. He’s clearly trying to decide on  _ something,  _ something to say or do, but all he’s doing is standing there, trembling, bleeding.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, firm, low. He holds his sword tight in only one hand, cupping Jaskier’s face in the other. Jaskier jerks his head out of his grip; Geralt feels it like a physical blow, direct to his chest. It pisses him off, before he swallows that down. “What happened to you?”

Jaskier shakes his head, still shaking. Geralt wants to grab him, but he’s worried Jaskier might just tear away from him and start running. He seems skittish, like a deer, and Geralt’s confusion is starting to beat out his anger.

“If someone hurt you,” Geralt says, as quietly as he can, “I want you to tell me.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker up to Geralt’s again, and whatever veil he has over them breaks for a moment. Geralt can see  _ him  _ inside, the real him, scrambling and terrified. It’s enough to tell him someone’s nearby.

Geralt slowly replaces the silver in his hand with steel. Jaskier’s eyes dart down to the movement, then back up, abruptly even more afraid than he had been. He looks quickly to the forest beyond Geralt’s shoulder; Geralt’s head jerks around to look.

“No!” Jaskier exclaims, and Geralt looks back, incredulous, bewildered.

“Jaskier—”

“No, I— I was leaving,” Jaskier says quickly. Geralt frowns down at him, grip tightening on his steel. Before he can speak, Jaskier pushes from him, pacing away from him and Roach. He continues, fast as lightning, “I decided I wanted to leave. I think I— I should probably— probably settle down somewhere, you know, because I’ll—” Jaskier laughs breathlessly, humorlessly, tears in his eyes. Geralt’s heart just keeps racing. “I’ll die eventually, Geralt, you know, and you don’t need me to slow you down—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt stops him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Jaskier’s silent, assessing him. His blue eyes dart over Geralt’s face before he says, “I’m dying.”

_ “What?”  _ Geralt demands. It’s obviously still a lie, but his heart catches all the same.

“No, I’m not dying,” Jaskier says. “I’m— I—”

“Tell me what’s happening,” Geralt growls. He doesn’t mean to, he just means to be quiet, but he’s angry and confused and Jaskier flinches, hands going to his sides.

Jaskier’s face clears, after a moment, and he reaches inside the tight waist of his pants. When he draws out a sheathed dagger, Geralt takes an involuntary, instinctive step backwards.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He doesn’t know what he means this time; he’s hoping Jaskier will.

“I don’t know what to do,” Jaskier says, too quiet for a human to hear. He forgets Geralt isn’t human so often.

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats. Jaskier looks up to him, still so afraid. Geralt remembers how often Jaskier’s told him he appreciates Geralt putting his thoughts to words, so he makes himself say, “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I can help you.”

Jaskier keeps looking at him. He seems to decide on something, on whatever thought he’d been having, and he drops the sheath off the dagger.

“Geralt, you have to trust me,” Jaskier tells him. His voice breaks, and his eyes shine, but he doesn’t cry. He just keeps staring forward at Geralt. Geralt frowns, and Jaskier says quickly, “You  _ have  _ to trust me. Darling, I need you to do that, okay?”

Geralt readjusts his grip on his steel sword and tells himself he’s calm. He nods once, still scanning Jaskier’s face for  _ any  _ hint about what he needs Geralt to do.

“Okay,” Jaskier breathes. His eyes flick over Geralt’s shoulder again, and he says, “Geralt, I need you to run—”

An arrow flies from the trees. Jaskier plants his hands hard on Geralt’s chest and  _ shoves,  _ and it’s not enough to move him, but Geralt’s shock is, and he stumbles backwards out of the arrow’s whizzing path. Instead of hitting him, it embeds itself in Jaskier’s shoulder; he takes it with a grunt, collapsing into Geralt’s side.

Geralt catches him one-handed, whirling with the sword in his other. He can’t see anyone, for a moment, so he listens and he hears three heartbeats, too close; they’d been drowned out by Jaskier’s panicked pulse, in his concern for him, and he hates himself for failing him. Still, though, he focuses, twisting Jaskier behind himself.

“Don’t,” Jaskier insists. He draws the dagger up. “Geralt, he’s going to—”

Geralt distantly recognizes the dagger, thinks it might be something he’s seen before, but he can’t spare another thought for it before Jaskier’s throwing it past him into the trees. Someone grunts and hits the ground.

“Oh, good,” Jaskier says breathlessly. He nearly falls to the ground, held up by Geralt’s forearm, as he wheezes, “That’s  _ payback,  _ Tomek,” into the forest.

“What—”

“They captured me, Geralt, they wanted me to kill you, but then I thought maybe I’d just— just— I just—” Jaskier stammers out over him, catching Geralt’s shoulder, then his neck, in his shaking hand. Geralt readjusts his grip on Jaskier’s waist so he can haul him up onto Roach.

“Get out of here,” Geralt tells him, smacking Roach’s flank to get her moving. She starts to run before rearing up just as quickly, snorting as she nearly falls to the side, stumbling backwards from another man coming from the woods.

The dagger Jaskier had thrown into the trees comes flying back out. Geralt reaches up and snatches it from the air, spinning it to grip the handle properly. He recognizes it distinctly, now, though he’s more bewildered for it.

“Aniela?” he calls into the trees. He gets an enraged cry in response, and another arrow whizzes past his head, narrowly missing his ear as he twists out of its way. The arrowhead embeds itself in the bark of a tree trunk down the way.

“You tainted my sister, White Wolf,” a voice shouts from the trees. “Now no man will take on her estate—”

_ “Narcyz?”  _ Geralt snarls. There’s silence. He remembers Aniela from years ago, a woman who had let him sleep in the extra room near her bedchambers if he cleared the basilisk out of the basement of the place. She’d come on to  _ him, _ as he recalls. She’d been attractive, and offered him a warm bed to share after sex in exchange for his advice on how to avoid marrying the horrid suitors her father had been lining up for her. Honestly, he hasn’t thought about her or her strange younger brother since he’d left after that week.

“My sister didn’t choose a suitor!” Narcyz yells to him. “She— You filled her head with—”

Geralt doesn’t care what monologue Narcyz has prepared for him to listen to. He cares more about ending this as swiftly as possible so he can tend to Jaskier.

_ Jaskier,  _ who’s still not speaking. Geralt whirls to sight him and finds him on the ground, thrown from Roach’s back, lying motionless on the dusty forest floor. His pulse kicks up a notch.

There’s a crack to Geralt’s left, a twig snapping, and he moves on instinct, throwing the dagger in his hand through a man’s head. It’s not Narcyz, but he hears Narcyz yelp close by.

“Come here,” Geralt snarls, but then there’s the crack and snap of another arrow being launched, and he spins to make sure it doesn’t hit Jaskier. It doesn’t, but Roach is snorting wildly and Jaskier is  _ still lying there,  _ so he turns into the woods and spits, “If you don’t run, I will  _ kill you.” _

“You—”

Geralt takes a step into the woods and hears Narcyz stumble backwards. Satisfied he has at least a minute or two before Narcyz decides to come crashing back, Geralt falls down to his knees beside Jaskier. He’s almost surprised to find Jaskier awake now, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is so dirtied with blood and dust that his eyes seem shockingly blue and clean.

“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes out. He starts to stand; Geralt tries to push him back down, but Jaskier shoves his hand away and forces himself up to his feet. The arrow’s still embedded in his shoulder, blood soaked through the entire front of his tunic —  _ his  _ tunic, Geralt notes with a pang. Blood drips from Jaskier’s cheeks and his jaw, from the point of his chin. Looking at him is a nightmare: he’s battered purple, his hair’s a knotted, gory mess, and his wrists are chafed bloody-raw. Clothes torn, face wild, Jaskier seems like he might either bolt or collapse.

Instead, Jaskier starts walking. He doesn’t pick any particular direction, from what Geralt can tell, but he’s moving too quickly to stop. Geralt grabs Roach’s reins and runs after him, crashing back through the branches of the trees.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. No response.  _ “Stop.” _

Jaskier keeps going, doesn’t stop. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to say, “I don’t really know where I’m going, so if you have a better idea, you ought to say it now. Otherwise I’ll just keep going and we know my sense of direction’s shit, I’ll probably just walk us right off a— a cliff—”

“Shut  _ up,  _ Jaskier,” Geralt snarls, terrified of this rambling nonsense as he hurries up to pass Jaskier. Jaskier falls silent, which is jarringly unlike him, so much so that Geralt instantly turns around to find Jaskier on his knees in the dust and dry grass.

He darts forward, scooping Jaskier up with an arm under his back and another under his knees. Jaskier’s head falls into Geralt’s chest, eyes closing before blinking back open sluggishly.

“Stay awake,” Geralt orders him. Jaskier huffs half a laugh, basically nothing, head curling closer to his chest. He’s unconscious again before Geralt can say anything more.

Cursing, Geralt climbs up onto Roach’s back and leans in close, urges her on, and she  _ runs. _

* * *

The first time Jaskier wakes up, he’s being jostled so violently he thinks he’s been captured, maybe. For a wild moment, he thinks he’s being dragged down to Hell—

But then he forces his eyes open and sees Geralt’s face above him. Making his head move to the side is impossibly painful and endlessly difficult, but, when he does it, he can see Roach’s head, barely an arm’s length away.

“Jaskier, stay awake,” Geralt’s rumbling voice tells him. Jaskier’s already closing his eyes again. He wishes he could listen, and he’s distantly afraid that he can’t, but he’s exhausted and doesn’t really have much of a choice.

The next time he wakes up, it’s like no time has passed at all. For a moment, he thinks he’s just blinked, or maybe only closed his eyes for a moment, but then he realizes he’s no longer riding on Roach’s back.

Instead, he’s been placed on some hard surface; something small is digging into his back, and he thinks, distantly, that he’s on a desk or a table, and he’s been impaled on a paperweight.

“He’s shaking,” Geralt’s voice says nearby. Jaskier can’t get his eyes to open, but he can make his fingers twitch. He tries to lift his hand entirely, but it won’t move. Lucky him, Geralt’s huge, warm hand wraps around his anyways, squeezing tight. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier starts to drag his eyes open, but then his chin is grasped and his mouth gets pulled open. Something hot surges down his throat, and he chokes on it, even as he swallows most of it. Geralt’s saying something angrily to someone, hand still wrapped up in Jaskier’s, while Jaskier just tries to breathe and stay awake. It seems monumental;  _ how strange,  _ he thinks,  _ that it’s usually so simple. _

Pain shoots like fire up his spine, and he cries out, back arching up off the table underneath him. He feels like he can’t breathe, like his entire body’s coming apart.

“Geralt,” Jaskier cries out. Geralt’s huge hands come back to grab his head this time, pinning his shoulders down and holding his head in place.

“You’re alright,” Geralt tells him. He’s so solid, so firm; in Jaskier’s mind, right now, Geralt is all he can focus on, he’s everything, a life preserver while he’s drowning in his own body. He stares up into Geralt’s golden eyes and tries to focus on the way he says, “Jaskier, you’re going to be alright. You’ll be alright,” over and over, on a loop. It’s the longest Jaskier thinks he’s ever heard Geralt talk, even if he’s not using a diverse vocabulary.

It seems important, in the moment, that Jaskier encourage this behavior, so he makes his mouth cooperate enough to say, “Okay.”

Geralt stops. After a second, he asks, “Okay?”

“Okay,” Jaskier repeats, the word mushing a little as he continues, “I trust you, I— I love you, you know what you’re doing. Geralt of Rivia, he knows what he’s…” Jaskier frowns, tries to reorganize his thoughts. They scatter like water droplets across glass.

He doesn’t know when he fades out, but when Jaskier wakes up, it’s just to more pain. It’s fierce, but it’s bearable, at least enough that he can breathe and open his eyes.

When he doesn’t immediately get swarmed or fall back asleep, his eyes start to adjust. He can tell that night has fallen; the room he’s in is too dark for it to be otherwise, unless he’s below ground, but—

No, there are windows, and lovely hand-carved wooden furniture, and—

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. Beside the soft bed Jaskier’s been laid up in, Geralt’s eyes snap open, the only discernible difference to indicate that he’s been woken up.

Geralt doesn’t say anything at first, grabbing a satchel up off the floor and pulling a glass bottle from it. He withdraws the stopper on the potion and holds it to Jaskier’s lips.

“Drink,” he instructs. After a moment, he helps Jaskier to sit up properly so he can tilt his head to drink. The potion tastes like mud and shit, but he drinks it all; Geralt won’t stop until he has.

Jaskier watches Geralt repack his satchel with short, sharp movements. His face is carefully blank, but Jaskier can read it all the same.

“Where are we?” Jaskier asks.  _ Easy question to start, _ he thinks, and then he’ll ease into the tougher stuff.

“Inn,” Geralt answers.

“Do you want to talk to me?” Jaskier asks, voice hoarse. He clears his throat. Geralt turns to him, eyes scanning him, before he comes to his bedside and lifts a misshapen cup of water to his lips, this time.

Jaskier drinks, but he doesn’t look away from Geralt. He’s not about to let him off the hook, not that easy. Geralt lets him get away with drinking half before he allows him to stop.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries again.

“There’s nothing to say,” Geralt tells him.

“Oh, I disagree,” Jaskier says. “I think there’s plenty to say, I think you just don’t want to hear it—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns him. Jaskier ignores that completely. Even as Geralt’s snarling at him, he’s lighting the candles on his nightstand, he’s bringing the fire in the hearth back to a blaze, he’s adjusting Jaskier’s covers around his bandaged chest. He just doesn’t  _ stop. _

“I have some questions about the woman whose honor you stole—”

“Do not—”

“But I admit, I have  _ more  _ questions about her brother being  _ so  _ angry with _ you _ that he’d try to force  _ me  _ into killing you,” Jaskier continues forcefully. “That seems like quite a leap, but then, who—”

“Narcyz is unstable,” Geralt tells him, just as empty as he thinks his expression is. Jaskier rolls his eyes, looking away from him. It hurts, but the potion’s numbing the pain a great deal, and he’s starting to relax, at least. He can tell Geralt’s gathering water in a tub by the fire for him, now that he can see in the fire- and candle-light, but he’s doing it so stiffly he looks like he might snap into pieces. “His sister asked me for help. Years ago.” He lifts his head, looks directly at Jaskier. “Before we even met. And I haven’t thought of her since.”

“Ah,” Jaskier allows. He clears his throat again, sends it aching and rasping. Geralt leaves the tub to help him drink a bit more water. When he backs off, Jaskier adds, “I wasn’t so much concerned about that part, but thank you. I do trust you, you know. I was more concerned about whether or not this might be something I should be concerned about happening  _ again,  _ because this was certainly something of a surprise for me.”

Geralt looks angry, but Jaskier’s reasonably sure it’s not at him. He reaches out and chances taking Geralt’s hand in his. It’s the right call, he thinks, because Geralt turns his hand over in Jaskier’s to squeeze his fingers lightly.

Years ago, even that would’ve been too much a show of emotion for Geralt. Now, he doesn’t seem to second-guess it, and Jaskier would be happier if Geralt didn’t look so hunted.

“This happened because of me,” Geralt says.

“Oh, don’t start that,” Jaskier tells him. “I’ve gotten roughed up by worse for my  _ own  _ misdeeds, thank you, Geralt. I don’t need you martyring yourself and leaving me in some nowhere village because you think it’s the noble thing to do, because it  _ isn’t.” _

Geralt still looks frustrated, still tries to say, “Jaskier—”, but Jaskier isn’t having it.

“The noble thing to do is to— to put me on Roach’s back, and bring me on to the next town with you, and not letting stupid— stupid  _ shit  _ like this stop you from living your life,” Jaskier says firmly.

“But—”

“Fuck the Path,” Jaskier says, and Geralt furrows his brow at him, “for trying to make you do shit you don’t want to do, and fuck Nar— Narcyz, too, for all  _ this  _ shit, and  _ fuck you  _ if you think you can tell  _ me _ what to do, because you  _ can’t.” _

Geralt keeps staring at him. The blank mask has broken; he looks frustrated still, but thoughtful now, understanding, and softened. Jaskier squeezes his hand.

“I  _ love _ you,” Jaskier says, just as firmly. “I won’t be going anywhere because of this, and neither will you. Do you understand me?” Geralt starts to say something that isn’t  _ yes,  _ so Jaskier says, firmer,  _ “Geralt.” _

“I can’t—” Geralt starts, then stops. He looks down at their joined hands, then says, “I can’t be the reason. That something happens to you. I can’t.”

“Then don’t be,” Jaskier says. “Geralt, to be honest with you, the worst thing that you could do would be to— to leave me. Not in a— Not in a  _ you can’t ever leave me  _ way, because I’m not— I wouldn’t do that, but in an  _ I’ll fight to stop you  _ way.” Jaskier looks to Geralt’s golden eyes and says, “I’m with you until one or both of us dies, and I mean that. If something happens to me, it does. It would happen anyways, let’s be honest, I’m a magnet for trouble.”

Geralt keeps studying him. After a long moment of flickering candlelight across his handsome face and total silence besides the crackling fire, he sits down on the edge of Jaskier’s bed. The pad of his thumb presses hard into the center of Jaskier’s bandaged palm.

“I won’t go anywhere,” Geralt tells him. Something feral and terrified scratching in the back of Jaskier’s mind settles, hearing that.

“This isn’t your fault,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt looks away from him, but Jaskier reaches up with his other hand to turn Geralt’s face back down towards his. “Geralt, this is  _ not  _ your fault.” He strokes under Geralt’s eye with his thumb. “The only thing that’s your fault is the fact that I’m alive.”

Geralt exhales slowly. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands and pulls Jaskier’s covers back. Wordlessly, he helps him from his clothes until he’s completely bare, grimy and bloody and bandaged only. Jaskier can practically hear the clock-works turning inside Geralt’s head, so he waits, instead just humming to himself as he picks at the edge of the bandage wrapped around his chest. Geralt heats the water in the bath with a flash of his hand. When he comes back, he unwinds the loosest bandages, leaving the packed wounds taped up, but nothing more. Jaskier’s just glad he’s spared seeing the gory worst of it.

It’s not until he’s lowered Jaskier into the bathwater and started washing his shoulders, slowly and carefully, that Geralt quietly says, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Jaskier assures him, twisting to look back at him. Geralt nudges his head back around with wet knuckles at his chin, so Jaskier looks away, grants him his space. Geralt keeps gently washing his back in soft, small circles. The water starts to cool, but before Jaskier can even shift or say anything, Geralt heats it for him again. After a beat, Jaskier asks, “Will you come in with me?”

Geralt hesitates, but he nods and stands. He strips off his own clothes quickly, a cleaner pair than he’d had on in the forest, last Jaskier remembers. He’s still grimy himself, though.

“Why didn’t you take a bath while I slept?” Jaskier asks as Geralt leaves his clothes on the bed with Jaskier’s.

“You haven’t slept that long,” Geralt tells him, even though it’s clearly nighttime. “It wasn’t important.”

Jaskier hums to himself, letting his hand drift up in the water until it rests on the surface. His wrists are still exposed, painted in a dried white salve but aching and raw from the ropes all the same. He sighs.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks. He helps Jaskier sit forward so he can climb into the tub behind him, situating himself with his chest to Jaskier’s back, his thighs bracketing Jaskier’s.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, once he’s settled. Geralt brings a palmful of water up to Jaskier’s head and slowly lets it trickle down. The water’s started turning pink, so Jaskier closes his eyes, tilts his head back. “Just tired. Exhausting work, you know. I was hired as an assassin today.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns him.

“Oh, too early to joke?” Jaskier asks.  _ “I  _ was the one beaten bloody, I’ll remind you.”

“Don’t,” Geralt says. He clears his throat gruffly, then says, “Don’t remind me.”

Jaskier falls silent for a moment. Geralt keeps washing his hair, one cupped handful of water at a time. It’s soothing, calming, listening to the water falling, feeling the warmth all along his back, enjoying Geralt’s fingers slowly cleaning and untangling the dried gore knotted up in his hair. It’s a long, slow process, and Jaskier starts falling back asleep during it. He only knows it’s done when Geralt runs his fingers through the wet, cleaned strands, curling up around his hands.

“I want you to know I’d never have done it,” Jaskier tells him. Geralt noses along Jaskier’s temple, down to his cut-up cheek. He stops there, just breathing evenly, listening. “What he wanted me to do. Kill— Killing you. I wouldn’t do it. I’d sooner kill myself—”

“Okay,” Geralt cuts him off. He turns Jaskier’s face towards him with a gentle hand at his chin. Jaskier chances a quick kiss to Geralt’s chin, and he gets a quirk of a smile in return. In his book, that’s a win.

“We can have a larger talk tomorrow about how I’d never betray you and how much I trust you,” Jaskier tells him.

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt says.

“Hush,” Jaskier says. “We’ve had this talk, I’m tired, I’m in pain, I’d—”

“You’re in pain?” Geralt asks. “You—”

“I’m  _ enjoying this,”  _ Jaskier interrupts him back. He settles against Geralt’s chest as if to prove his point, tilting his head back so Geralt can look down at him and make eye contact with him. There’s still an edge of fear threading through his face; to be honest, that same fear thrums still in Jaskier’s veins, and he has a sneaking suspicion that a real, proper panic attack will come after he’s gotten a good night’s rest. He dreads processing everything that’s happened today, but that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Right now, he has Geralt behind him, the pain isn’t so bad in the hot water, and he’s happy to be alive. It’s about as good as he can hope for, right now.

“I love you, too,” Geralt says, low in his throat, finally. Jaskier barely hears it, but Geralt’s clearly said it just loud enough for him to catch. After a moment, Geralt adds, “And I trust you. Too.”

Jaskier smiles, lazily closing his eyes as he presses a kiss to the hard line of Geralt’s jaw.

“Don’t let this happen again,” Geralt continues. “I’m going to start training you more often.”

Jaskier groans. “Let me have  _ tonight,  _ Geralt, please?”

He can feel Geralt’s small smile when he ducks his head down to kiss an unmarred spot on Jaskier’s cheek. Geralt doesn’t pull back, stays close and wrapped around Jaskier, so he lets himself drift off again, just for now. Geralt’s his partner in this, he knows that; he can trust him. There’s no fear left in him when he falls asleep in Geralt’s arms in the bath, because he knows, he  _ knows,  _ that Geralt won’t let anything happen to him, same as he’d never let anything happen to Geralt. It’s a warm and satisfying knowledge, stronger at subduing the pain than the potion had been.

Geralt still doesn’t speak, but he keeps stroking Jaskier’s hair, scratching his scalp, and that’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i have an idea for a sequel to this that takes place post season one if there's any interest??
> 
> You can (and should!) come follow me on Twitter at [@nicole__mello](https://twitter.com/nicole__mello) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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